Break My Strings
by Razer Athane
Summary: He stands there like a statue, unmoving. I stand like a soldier, stiff by his side. He'll break me. -Merthur, Oneshot-


Disclaimer: Nope, don't own _Merlin_.

Author's Note: Hey, thanks for clickin' :) I'm new to the section, but I've been watching the show since it started on Australian TV about… two or so months ago. Sunday night's episode was _"The Moment of Truth",_ and after seeing it, I just had to write something about this awesome show. So yeah. And another thing, this is my first time writing anything _remotely _slashy (though I've read _plenty. _This section and the Kingdom Hearts section are just _crawling _with it XD), and I'm pretty happy with it for a first try, but if anyone has any constructive criticism, I'm all ears, its welcome. Regardless, enjoy!

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**BREAK MY STRINGS**

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He stands there like a statue, unmoving. If I was not so close to him, I wouldn't otherwise be able to tell whether or not Merlin's slowly inhaling and exhaling breath, treasuring the air as though it were the only thing keeping him together. His Mother is behind us, with Gwen and Morgana, and we all watch on as the flames rise and lick the sky, shimmering.

I stand like a soldier, stiff by his side, and watch on in silence. My hands are behind my back, and they remain there, bound by self control. I look ahead of me, watching as the sorcerer's body burns, and the smell of searing flesh invades my nostrils. An unpleasant scent, but I try hard to block it out, because I should not show retaliation. Not for the life that is ahead of me.

_To hesitate in battle is foolishness_ – that is what Father once told me. I can hear him saying it to me, in my head, and not once did the men and women of Ealdor hesitate out there. Not myself, Merlin, not Morgana or Gwen, or Matt before he died, or the sorcerer – _Will _here – no, not even him. He was reluctant, yes; but not in battle. In the heat of the moment, he moved swiftly like a wolf, and struck with eagle-like precision.

And my Father adds, after a pause in my mind as I glance at Merlin from the corner of my eyes – _and_ _concern is weakness._

Sometimes, I believed those words. If it was to protect those around me or myself, I am not sure, but I cherished what he said to me. Sometimes I wanted to shut myself out from the world and pretend – or more rather, _insist – _that it revolves around me, and that _only_ _I matter, Arthur, _the Prince of Camelot_. _As stupid as it is, I'd like nothing more than to do that right now, because to see the sorry sod next to me is tearing at me; and its only here that I realise exactly how weak I feel, and it's because of my concern for _him, _my lowly – and worst – manservant.

And still unmoving, I open my mouth and say, "I'm sorry."

Merlin says nothing. He keeps on staring, as do I. I tense, realising that this is gnawing at him from the inside, like a dog chewing on a bone; and if it keeps up, he will indeed fall apart. And I won't have that. It is not in my interest to have a sad servant – _fool – friend, _because we all know that he doesn't deserve these things that happen to him.

He is like an archer. He's not _Cupid, _because he can't _aim_, nor can he pull the _string _of the bow back to a decent level to actually release the arrow in question with accuracy… But he has pierced me, and for the first time in a long time, the weakness is made real, like I'm a five-year-old again, silently afraid of the future to come. And it isn't soft. His scrawny, stick arms have hidden strength in them, because he's pulling this… bow – _me – _back too hard and far, and he'll break the string.

He'll break me.

Your silence is killing me, Merlin. Warriors, trained to bring death swiftly, have not brought me down. Beasts of _magic _have even failed to destroy me. But you are, _you have; _and again, I open my mouth, if only to break this haunting stillness. My throat is dry, and I force myself to sound as caring as I can, but the words that crawl out of me still sound so stiff and monotonous and detached and… _cold_, "I know he was a close friend."

He is like a virtuoso – for lack of a better word – or rather, far from it. He's not the best damn musician in Camelot – he's probably the worst – I'm not even sure if he can get his clumsy fingers around an instrument _at all, _let alone bring forth some type of talent to play… and its strange, because this other analogy slides in alongside the archer perfectly. A harp in his hands, like he obliviously has me in this moment; he would pluck the strings too hard, thus breaking them, and they can't sing their enchanting melodies anymore.

He's broken me.

"He still is," he finally says, voice struggling to hold.

And I push down my selfishness to the best of my ability, the fire enveloping my gaze wholly once again. And as it dances, I still ponder. Fighting is never easy, you're never numb of a physical blow during the battle, let alone a mental one, especially in situations like this. If I am broken, then what is he?

I speak again, and what falls from my mouth cannot be helped, and it comes out harsher than I ever wanted. It takes all I have to keep my hand away from his shoulder, not because he needs it there, but because maybe, in some strange way, _I _need it there, "You knew he was a sorcerer, didn't you? That's what you were going to tell me."

"Yes. It was."

But the darting eyes between the dying Will and the shaking Merlin couldn't be missed. I saw. I indeed saw, but I passed it off as shock, as something related with dying – _and I still do, _but I know there's something more to this. But maybe in time, whatever's being hidden will reveal itself. The tapestry will be unwound, string by string – and some will break, but that's okay, because they can always be fixed, right?

I'm still broken, a soldier crippled by the weight of his heart, but still standing tall.

If in one hand, Merlin is an archer – a poor one at that – and in the other hand, he is a virtuoso – a terrible one, mind you – and for both, the only thing he's good at is breaking the strings… Then I am the harp, or violin if you'd rather, and he's delusional, thinking that I'm some sort of bow – short or long – and all those strings, those _weakened, feeble, shaking strings _have been snapped _already; _and I only see it now – and I should really stop rambling on, because this is incredibly stupid, I'm imagining myself to be a piece of _entertainment _for God's sake –

Well… Maybe I am, to him.

I quickly try to piece myself together again, to become the _aggressor _as opposed to the man in submission, and I finally speak, my words softer than they had been previously, but still firm and harsh, still _commanding, _and I'm trying so hard not to be, "You know how dangerous magic is. You shouldn't have kept this from me, Merlin."

I turn away, glad I have such self control, because otherwise I'd be trembling all over now. Merlin, right now, he's such a far cry from the man I've… _grown attached to, _and I feel like hating myself for it, but deep down inside, even though I'm trying, I just can't. He's pierced me, he's peeled away my shell, and I am left vulnerable to attack. I am weak, because of my concern – because _I care for him, _even if he has broken my strings, and I've been left – _I am voiceless._

And in this battlefield, I hesitate – _I'm unsure._

And that _terrifies me._


End file.
